Thanksgiving seems to be one of those odd meals that coalesces into all the various shades of browns and whites. Don’t get me wrong, my gal can serve it up with the best of them. Corn bread stuffing instead of the normal bread. Pumpkin cremé brûlée and pomegranate cranberry sauce. Bobby Flay has nothing on her. And yet the served plate is the color of Thanksgivings past. It’s been said that the eyes are the first to taste. Yesterday I would have to differ.

Digest well and carry on.